


Got Me Hypnotized (So Mesmerized)

by wasted_wallflower



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Din Djarin, Cultural Differences, Fluff and Angst, Human Disaster Din Djarin, Luke Skywalker is very amused, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Panromantic Luke Skywalker, The gay coparenting we need, They’re both idiots and awkward as hell, himbos in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28265361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasted_wallflower/pseuds/wasted_wallflower
Summary: “Thanks. For what you’re doing, I mean.” The words come out stilted and slow, and not for the first time, Din curses his inability to talk to people like a normal person.Luke Skywalker smiles at him, ducking his head with an undoubtedly bashful expression on his face, while the kid (Grogu, he reminds himself) chatters between them. “You’re welcome.” He says, that smile still on his face, and oh.Oh no.Din Djarin does not have a crush, despite what everyone else thinks. Enter Luke Skywalker.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 38
Kudos: 955





	Got Me Hypnotized (So Mesmerized)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oliveotter413](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliveotter413/gifts).



> B (and S), Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, this is for you. There are some discussions of PTSD and depression initially, although Din does not recognize them as such. Of course, having a crush can only be realized by laying in bed and listening to David Archuleta’s “Crush” (speaking from personal experience), hence the title. 
> 
> I’m not an expert on Star Wars’ lore and/or the novels; I’ve only seen the movies, some of the Clone Wars, and the Mandalorian, so apologies if anything seems OOC or is canonically incorrect. I assumed that Luke and Grogu were on Jakku, as it’s relatively isolated, and took some liberties with the cultural differences between them (note: there are prequel-spoilers when Luke discusses his familial history). Mandalorian words come from Wookiepedia (translations are in the end note), but I did construct a word specifically for Grogu’s language - Bejr. 
> 
> As always, I am in need of a beta, so please don’t hesitate to tell me if I have any grammatical errors or any criticism of my writing. Enjoy!

Leaving Grogu is both harder and easier than Din anticipated. 

On one hand, it’s shamefully freeing, not having to worry about if the kid’s going to get injured, or lost - or worse, taken - while working. He can go back to bounty hunting or taking odd jobs to save up for a ship along the way, without the constant threat of _dangerdangerdanger_ looming over them. 

And yet. 

It _hurts_. Pain, acute and blistering, burns through him like fire. Physically, he feels like he’s lost a limb and the only thing that remains is a bloody, raw wound. Emotionally, however, is a different story. Anger, desperation, grief - they all blur together into an unidentifiable (and indescribable) feeling - and the only comparable situation is the loss of his parents, of his _home_ when he was a boy. It’s a dull wound, one that throbs and hides in the background, but occasionally it will flare up when a song or a dish or a laugh reminds him of _home_ , and for the rest of the day, Din feels odd. Sadness soaks into every pore and every crevice of his body, like some insidious parasite, and it’s difficult to move, _to think_ \- he’s ashamed to admit that he’s spent more days in his cot than he would like as a result. 

He didn’t realize that crying would be cathartic; the last time he cried was after his rescue, and even then, the gentle, armored hands of The One who took him as his foundling soothed away his tears. They run heavy and hot down his face, and he wipes them off, suddenly angry at that Jedi who took _his kid_ away. 

His helmet lies on his cot, shining beskar mocking him, and Din has to resist the urge to throw it to the ground. He’s not that childish, to be so wound up by _aay'han_ that he wishes to strike down his armor, is he? 

A knock interrupts his increasingly morose contemplation, and the helmet is quickly shoved back on. It’s Fett, who looks oddly bereft, and asks in what seems to be the voices of a thousand men, “Mind if I come in?” 

“Go ahead.” His voice is raspier than usual, and Din hopes that Fett can’t tell that he has been crying. The other man sees right through him - Boba Fett is unusually gifted in that sense - and says, “I’m sorry about what happened, with the kid.” 

“It’s fine.” The words are automatic, a testament to how exactly _not fine_ the situation is, and Fett snorts, a disgruntled sound that would make Bo-Katan sneer in displeasure. It’s nice, human. 

“It’s not. You’re shaking.” He shakes his head, the scars moving slightly out of sync in Din’s blurred vision, and sits down on the cot. Fett looks at his hands, studying them with a strange sort of intensity, and then looks up and begins to speak. 

“I’ve lost millions of little brothers, you know. They were clones, like me, and therefore, not deserving of love or decency in the eyes of those that made them.” His hands clench into fists, along with suppressed anger underlying the initial calm in his voice, “They died, either alone in battle, or with their brothers alongside them. I’ve often wondered, why me? Why did my father want me to be left alone and kept safe when they weren’t given the same opportunity?”

A pause. “I’m sorry,” Din says, sincerely, because he can’t imagine the pain in losing millions of loved ones in some wealthy politician’s war where they were discarded, seen as less than human. 

Fett sighs. “I am too.” He glares, looking him directly in the eyes, and continues, “I loved my father. I loved my brothers. They’re all dead, and I can’t even go to other Mandalorians or what remains of Mandalore because I’m not welcomed; I’m seen as a traitor.” More gently, he adds, “I know how you feel, _ner_ _vod_.” 

“Your pronunciation is atrocious,” Din responds, unthinking of any consequences that may occur due to insulting the best bounty hunter in the galaxy. Fett cracks a smile at that. 

“I didn’t grow up _Manda’od_ , so I only know a few words, but I doubt there are enough words in the language to express how you’re feeling, am I correct?” A nod forces its way out of Din’s tired, aching head, and he feels inexorably grateful and overwhelmed at the same time. 

“Know that it will get better with time. It won’t ever fully go away, not really, but it will get better. I mean, look at me, I’m still somewhat functional.” Fett gestures towards himself, adding, “ _Somewhat_ being the keyword.” 

He can’t help it; he laughs. “You’re more than somewhat functional, Fett. You’re the best bounty hunter in the galaxy.” 

“As if,” Fett grumbles, mock-scowling, before pulling out a bottle of _tihaar_ and something that smells mouth-wateringly spicy. “Here, have a drink with me.” 

Din does. They eat and drink and talk, Din offering to give him instructions on his _Manda’o_ pronunciation, while Fett discusses a job he had that very nearly ended in him having to seduce a Hutt, spinning the story in a fashion that borders on ludicrous, and they laugh and laugh and _laugh._

“Thank you.” He says, wishing that there was another, stronger word that encompasses how grateful he is. Fett nods in acknowledgment and replies, _“Gar're Olarom, Din.”_

“ _Ga’are Olarom._ ” He corrects, and Fett rolls his eyes in response. “That’s what I said, innit?”

“That is absolutely not what you said.” 

Fett stands up to leave, flipping him off in the process, and says, “Goodnight.” The door shuts softly, and while Din is alone, the loneliness has disappeared, just a little bit. 

Maybe Fett is right. Maybe things will get better. He just has to take it one day at a time. 

Bounty hunting is a familiar routine and one that Din is very good at, so it’s not a surprise that he eventually saves up enough to buy a small ship. It’s nothing like the _Razorcrest_ , diminutive both inside and out, but it’s cheap and has a decent enough engine that doesn’t fall apart in hyperdrive, so he takes it. 

The days blur together, and his routine narrows down to travel, hunt, eat, sleep. It’s not exactly fulfilling, but it is manageable and distracts him from the _ache_ in his chest whenever he notices that the other seat in the cockpit is empty, and that has to be worth something. Cara and Greef contact him once a week, discussing changes on Nevarro, where he’s been (not that there’s anything particularly noteworthy about each place; he’s there for the job and can’t afford to get distracted), and perhaps more worryingly, if he’s okay. 

“Stop mother-henning me.” He tells Cara, who proceeds to stick her tongue out at him and snap, “Stop saying you’re okay.” 

Din can feel a headache building and swift irritation arising. “I have to be okay. I can’t mope forever just because the kid’s gone.” Cara looks at him, her compassion evident through the cheap, grainy holo, and says, “You’re allowed to mourn, you know that, right? You loved him, and he loved you. It’s okay to miss that.” 

A lump emerges in his throat, and he swallows, hoping that he won’t cry again _(it’s pathetic)_. “I’m done mourning. He’s with his kind now, and he’ll be better off without me.” It’s terrible how much Din wishes that wasn’t true, how badly he wants the kid back and reliant on him, and Cara gives him a sad smile. 

“Just be careful, alright? Greef and I don’t want to find you dead.” 

“Thanks for the words of encouragement.” Cara snickers and Din finds himself grinning at the sound. He turns the holo off, standing up to clean his weapons and replace his blaster when a chime echoes through the ship. It’s not a sound he’s heard before, and it sets his hackles on edge. _Did someone try to hunt him down?_

It echoes through again, and he turns around, intent on finding out what the hell it is. His datapad’s light is blinking, and he belatedly, foolishly, realizes that the chime must be from that. There’s a message on the screen, from _Luke Skywalker._

 _Who is that?_ Curiosity gets the best of him, and he pulls it up, beginning to read what looks like a letter that’s written in _Mando’a,_ interestingly enough. 

_Dear Bejr,_

_Apologies if this is not your real name, but it’s what Grogu refers to you as. My name is Luke Skywalker (the Jedi training him, I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce myself, sorry), and I thought it would be best to update you on his progress._

Din is reeling. Why is Grogu’s Jedi trainer _(Master? Person? whatever)_ contacting _him?_ He glances around, hoping that this communication can’t be traced or reached by anyone that wants to put their lives in danger, and forces himself to continue reading. 

_If you’re worried about this letter falling into the wrong hands, I used a secure, secret comm-link to send it to you, and it will be erased from all databases once you finish reading. I’m afraid I can’t give you too much information about where we are or where we’re going, but I wanted to let you know that he was able to lift and stack three large stones today! It’s a significant achievement, given that he previously had difficulty with just one. He’s progressing nicely and has a lot of potential, and maybe he’ll be able to lift four or five by tomorrow!_

_Grogu misses you a lot. Jedi aren’t supposed to have attachments, and I’m technically not supposed to be sending this, but I am somewhat worried for him. If you would like, you could send a holo-recording of yourself (make sure it’s secure, please!). I think it would cheer him up._

_Grogu and I both hope that you’re doing alright. I’ll send these letters periodically (if you still want to read them, that is) since I don’t want to take you from him._

_I don’t want to take you from him?_ What does the Jedi mean by that? He’s already taken the kid. 

_Good luck with everything. - Luke_

Din sighs, puts his head into his hands and tries not to reread the letter. Another beep comes from his datapad, and he blearily looks up. So Skywalker was right; it was erased. _Good riddance_ , he thinks. 

His fingers itch to send a message, ask more about Grogu’s training and if he’s okay, but it’s risky, despite the precautions that Skywalker’s taken. He shouldn’t do it. It’s a bad idea all around. 

But: the worst idea Din’s ever had was taking the kid, back when he still considered him to be bounty, and he suddenly had a new, better purpose, one that he didn’t ever want to give up. 

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” The ship doesn’t answer, and painstakingly, he begins to write. _Mando’a_ is primarily spoken, not written, and it’s challenging to remember verb tenses and nouns explicitly used in writing, but after an hour of gritting his teeth and getting through his burgeoning headache, his letter appears to be in good enough condition to send. 

_Dear Luke Skywalker,_

_Thanks for the update. I was surprised to receive it, given that I thought that Grogu was supposed to be hidden away with you. Three stones, huh? That’s impressive._

_I’m doing alright, trying to keep busy and distract myself ~~from you taking my kid from me~~._ _I got a new ship recently, it’s nothing fancy, but I can include a rough drawing for him to see. Tell Grogu that I miss him and that I’ll send him a holo-recording soon. Also, he loves meat and eggs and seafood, so if you have any of that, give it to him. I have his ball as well, and if he misbehaves, tell him that I’m going to take it away. I’ve done it before, and it works pretty well (haha)._

_Please continue to keep me updated. I want to learn more about how he’s doing since I can’t be there in person._

_Good luck to you too. - Din Djarin_

Signing his name feels weirdly official, but Din pushes through and includes one very crude, no identifiable features, drawing of the ship below. He hesitates before pushing send, opting to add a quick question. 

_What does Bejr mean?_

Skywalker’s response is instantaneous. _It means Father._

  
  


So, sending letters to Luke Skywalker is part of his routine now. Din can’t say he minds it. Luke is surprisingly funny and quick-witted and more than willing to gush over the kid’s accomplishments _(he’s at seven stones now, seven!)_. Din feels inadequate in his responses, but writing _Manda’o_ has always been more difficult than speaking for him. Luckily, Luke has no qualms about his shorter, blunter responses, instead choosing to write longer, flowery ones after every message, and he has a distinct impression that Luke Skywalker babbles when excited. 

The image is unexpectedly cute. 

_(Cara teases him, asking about who he’s seeing that puts a smile on his face. “You can’t even see my face.” “I don’t need to see your face to see that you’re into someone!” And Greef, of all people, has taken to chiming in as well, and dank farrik, why is this his life?)_

And then, about six months after their initial conversation, he receives a short message - alarmingly short for someone as verbose as Luke - numbers and letters jumbled up into a cipher. _Coordinates._

He’s going to see them. The thought strikes both fear and happiness through him, and Din forces himself to calm down. He can’t get too carried away, not yet. 

He takes another simple job on Tatooine, receiving just enough money to buy the kid a nice cut of bantha meat, and heads out. The journey to meet Grogu and Luke Skywalker is long, and Din sleeps, feeling restful for the first time in a _long_ time. 

It’s warm when he arrives, dry heat seeps through his armor, and he knows that the walk to where they are will make him a sweating, tired shell of a man. However, it’s worth it to see Grogu’s face light up, along with a more restrained but also excited expression on Luke Skywalker’s. 

“Hey, kid.” Din crouches down, feeling ridiculously awkward and sweaty, and Grogu _shrieks_ \- an almost deafening sound that’s going to leave his ears ringing - running towards him on little legs, and wrapping his entire body around one leg. It’s _adorable_ how much smaller he is than Din, and Luke Skywalker says, rather happily, “He’s been looking forward to this all week.” 

“I hope I didn’t disappoint.” 

Luke throws back his head and laughs, his throat a long, gleaming line of golden skin, and Din swallows down the sudden urge of _want_. “You could never disappoint him. Or me.” He winks. 

What the actual fuck is that supposed to mean? Jedi are fascinating creatures, speaking in proverbs instead of saying what they honestly think. 

“Ooh, is that bantha?” Luke asks, making _gimmegimme_ motions that are incredibly similar to the kid’s, and _oh no_ , there’s two of them. They’ve rubbed off each other, and Din very tactfully resists the urge to bang his head against something. 

“Yes.” Grogu and Luke both cheer at that. “We need to find a place to sit and eat, though.” 

“We’ll go to the village,” Luke, who is a very childish Jedi, declares, and he resigns himself to following the other man. The kid is hoisted to his hip, grabbing onto his armor like he never wants to let it go; it’s soothing how familiar it feels. 

The village - _Tuanal -_ is small and barren, not unlike the villages on Tatooine. They enter a cozy, albeit worn, house and Din finds himself sitting at the table, slices of bantha meat floating _(kriffing floating)_ towards him. It’s a surprisingly terrifying sight. 

Of course, the kid has no qualms about eating bantha meat that floats, using his powers to bring it closer towards him. “We’re out of plates. And forks.” Luke admits, his shoulders slumping forwards as he digs into the bantha. 

“You really like bantha meat, huh?” He says _(like an idiot),_ and the man in question grins. 

“I’m from Tatooine originally. I have to like bantha; it’s the law.” Din tries his hardest to remember if that’s a law or not before realizing that Luke is _teasing him._ He looks unreasonably good, despite having eaten meat that floats, the sun shining on his hair and skin and reflecting in his _blue_ eyes, and he tears his eyes away, abruptly ashamed. 

They don’t say anything for a while after that, and the bantha meat really is good; he had tried it earlier, nicely spiced (although it could use a bit more pepper, in Din’s opinion) and melt-in-your-mouth tender.

“Come on. I want to show you something.” Luke gestures towards him, and Din follows, Grogu in tow. The hallways are narrow, and he’s pressed up against the Jedi’s back much more _(less)_ than he would like to be while trying to navigate. They reach the end of the hall that opens up to a room that’s painted yellow, a small cot in the center, and with a jolt, he realizes this is the kid’s room. 

“I know that we won’t be able to stay long in Jakku, but I wanted to show you that I am taking care of him.” The expression on Luke’s face is achingly earnest like he is awaiting approval, and a rush of something ( _affection?)_ travels through Din at the lengths this man has taken to keep _his kid safe_. 

“Thanks. For what you’re doing, I mean.” The words come out stilted and slow, and not for the first time, Din curses his inability to talk to people like a normal person. 

Luke Skywalker smiles at him, ducking his head with an undoubtedly bashful expression on his face, while the kid _(Grogu, he reminds himself)_ chatters between them. “You’re welcome.” He says, that smile still on his face _, and oh._

_Oh no._

* * *

Din takes the spare cot next to the cooling unit, despite his protests. It would be amusing to see that bulky suit of armor that encases the man inside curled up on the cot, but he probably wants privacy and a chance to freshen up, so Luke refrains from checking up on that. 

Grogu had fallen asleep not long after their chat, _happinesswarmthlove_ traveling through their Force bond, making cooing noises and grabby hands at Luke, wanting to hear the lullaby holo-recording that Din had sent earlier and that he’s played every night since. Luke chuckles, pulling it up, and as usual, Grogu’s out like a light as soon as it finishes. 

Din Djarin is a man of few words, but Luke can sense fierce affection and kindness in him. His letters always leave Luke wanting more, to peel back the armor and find the man within, and meeting him today was _fascinating._ He thinks back on how intense the man is, how clearly Din’s emotions were broadcasted towards him (albeit unintentionally), and that surge of _want_ that flared when he saw Luke, and he feels warm under the collar of his robes. 

He takes a few deep breaths, trying not to send any appropriate thoughts or feelings - or worse, _images_ \- through the Force Bond and inadvertently scar his young padawan for life. It’s a bit odd, feeling _this way_ about someone. 

The thing is, Luke likes kissing. He likes kissing and hand-holding and cuddling (which is especially fun). He just doesn’t like the expectation of what comes _after._ Sex has never been something Luke has particularly cared for, much to several of his partners’ chagrin, but maybe it could be different with Din? 

He pictures kissing him fiercely, _passionately,_ pushing him down onto the bed, tracing his face with soft gentleness before continuing to kiss downwards, and it’s not necessarily a bad thing; it might even be nice, being that close with someone. And it’s not like Din is _unattractive_ ; he’s lovely and kind and so very good with Grogu, and something in Luke’s stomach jolts a bit at the realization that - _oh, that’s a crush._

Of course. He can practically hear Han cackling, _“you’ve always had a thing for older men, kid,”_ and just because he may have had a tiny crush on _Han_ of all people when he was younger, doesn’t mean that it’s a trend, does it? 

Luke groans and pulls up his datapad. “I’m going to regret this,” he says to himself, typing in _ways to woo a Mandalorian?_ The search results are predictably empty, and he sighs, and then inspiration strikes. 

“C3-PO!” He calls. If 3-PO had enough knowledge to help him translate his letter into _Mando’a_ , he surely knows about Mandalorian courting rituals, right? A golden cast appears from the closet as C3-PO’s head pops out. 

“You called for me, Master Luke?” 

“I’ve told you so many times to stop calling me Master, 3-PO.” He continues before the droid can apologize since 3-PO’s apologies are incredibly lengthy, “Do you have any information about Mandalorian courting rituals?” 

There’s silence on the droid’s end and the slight sound of whirring, which means he’s probably thinking far too hard, and then 3-PO says, “If you wish to court a Mandalorian, you must challenge them to a fight.” 

_“What?”_ He blurts out, uncaring of how loud his voice is. 3-PO regards him with an impatient look, indicating that he has more information, and Luke mutters, “Sorry, continue.” 

“Thank you,” says 3-PO in his uniquely crisp, admonishing tone. “On Mandalore or _Manda’yiam_ in _Mando’a,_ people pride themselves on their ability to fight and protect those that they love. However, when one person wishes to make their intentions of a romantic nature known, they ask for an opportunity to fight with their," at this he pauses, before saying “ _cya’rika_. I suppose the best Galactic Standard translation is dear one or beloved.” 

“Oh.” 

“Shall I continue, Master Luke?” He nods, slightly overwhelmed by the directness of such a prospect. 

“As I was saying, this fight is not meant to be fun or flirtatious - it must be won without holding back on either side - and false yielding will disqualify the initiator. If they were to win fairly, their _cya’rika_ still could choose if they accept the invitation.” 

“So,” Luke says slowly, just to see if he has everything correct, “I have to ask him to fight me, make sure that both of us are fighting fairly and giving it our all, and even if I win, it’s not a guarantee that he’ll accept my intentions.” 

“Precisely, Master Luke. You are quite good at concisely summarizing complex topics.” 3-PO replies kindly. 

Luke stares at him. “Can’t I make him food or something instead? I’m sure I could scourge up some flowers. And how do you know I won’t get hurt?” 

“While there have been deaths in this form of combat, it’s relatively rare; I’d estimate around twenty-five percent of death or injury occurs. Giving food that you made to a Mandalorian is seen as rather intimate, and that would most likely occur after the invitation to court is accepted.” 

_Great._ The first person Luke has a crush on in _ages_ will be nearly impossible to woo traditionally. _Come on, Luke, you’ve destroyed two death stars, killed the emperor, and became a Jedi Knight_ , he tells himself. _This is nothing; you can do it (easily)._

“Well, great chat, 3-PO. I’ll see you in the morning.” 3-PO smiles or tries to smile at him. 

“Goodnight, Master Luke.” The closet door closes, and Luke flops face-first on the bed, groaning. 

_How wonderful the life of a Jedi is._

  
  


He wakes up to a yell, or perhaps more precisely, yelling in _Mando’a_ , which can only mean one thing: something terrible happened to Din. He jumps out of bed, running and using the Force to grab his lightsaber, making an effort not to wield it in the narrow hallway. 

“Sir, will you _please_ calm down? My name is C-3PO, human-cyborg relations -" _What the Force is happening?_

Din snarls something in _Mando’a_ , too low and fast for Luke to understand, although he’s pretty sure it’s along the lines of _“get karked,”_ and 3-PO says, tremulous, “There is no need for that kind of language in front of the little one.” 

He puts himself between them, still looking for Grogu, only to find him curled behind one armored leg, “What’s happening?”

 _“Move,”_ Din growls, and if it weren’t a tense situation, Luke might have been more inclined to hear those kinds of sounds from kissing him _(no, definitely not the time to think about that, stop it)._

“No. Not until you explain what’s happening.” He says, tilting his chin upwards, wishing that he wasn’t shorter than the other man (who looks somewhat terrifying in his armor at this angle). 

“This _droid_ ,” he spits out the word ferociously, and Luke can feel _angerhaterage_ emanating off him in waves, “was holding m- Grogu. He could have hurt him.” Almost mulishly, he adds, “I hate droids.” 

“You’re worried about 3-PO hurting Grogu?” A nod. There’s an apparent history surrounding Din’s hatred of droids, and while Luke is incredibly curious, he’d rather have Din tell him when he’s comfortable. 

“Well,” Luke starts, “you don’t need to worry. He belonged to my father -” sadness arises at the thought of a young Anakin Skywalker who was so _smart_ and shone so _bright_ “ - and was programmed to help, not to hurt. ” 

Din eyes them, wary, and then gruffly jerks his head to the side. “Get out.” 

“With pleasure. Master Luke, I would advise that -” 

_“Thank you, 3-PO.”_

There is some silence before Din says, in a tone that could be embarrassed, “Sorry for almost destroying your droid.” 

“You thought that you were protecting Grogu. That’s a good instinct to have; it’ll help all of us.” 

_Embarrassmentpride_ surges around Din, along with _desire,_ and in his haste to see what was happening, Luke belatedly realizes that he ran out without a shirt on. In his defense, Jakku is especially hot at night, and temperature control using the Force is something that he’s done for quite a while now, to the point where his environment feels the same with or without a shirt. 

“You should probably get dressed.” Din husks, his voice is low and rough, and Luke shivers in a way that has nothing to do with the room’s temperature. 

“Probably.” He agrees, hoping that his voice doesn’t crack. 

“I need to get food for the kid.” The change in subject is abrupt; the _shamefrustration_ surrounding him spikes, and Din turns on his heel and leaves. 

Weird. Luke shrugs, knowing better than to try and press the issue, and goes to put on his robes. Din and Grogu are in the kitchen - if it can be called that since it’s so small - and they both watch with fascination as Grogu tears into the last piece of bantha meat. 

“You know,” Luke says, “I’m always surprised at how carnivorous he is.” Din snorts in agreement. 

“I mean, I knew another member of his species, but he didn’t seem to be nearly as inclined towards meat.” 

He finds himself staring into gleaming beskar as the other man turns to face him. “You knew another member of his species?” 

“I did. He was my Master; he taught me everything I needed to know about the Force.” He swallows, pangs of despair rising in his chest. “His name was Yoda, and he died about five years ago.” 

“I’m sorry,” Din says, his voice impossibly soft, and a jerky nod is all Luke can offer in response. 

Grogu coos, sending _happinesswarmthlove_ through their Force bond in an attempt to cheer him up, and Luke smiles. It does make him feel a little better, but they have more important things to do. 

“It’s training time, little one.” At that, Grogu shrieks happily. He looks at Din and asks, “Do you want to observe today’s session?” 

The sky is bright blue, the sun beating down heavy and hot on the sand, and all of a sudden, Luke misses Tatooine fiercely. At nineteen, he was foolish and hot-headed, assuming that he knew everything there was to know, and while he loves being a Jedi, loves helping Grogu and his _Bejr_ and countless others, he can’t help but wonder what his life would have been like if he stayed on Tatooine. 

“Grogu, catch.” He sends a stone hurling through the air - it’s easily as large as his young padawan - and much to his pride and pleasure, Grogu sets it on the ground with ease. Two, three, four more stones head his way until they form a neat pile that’s taller than both Luke and Din. 

“Alright. Now, Grogu, I want you to bring back all the stones to me, but keep them in a pile.” 

“Are you sure that’s safe?” Din interjects. “I don’t want either of you getting hurt.” 

“I’ll be alright. Grogu, send them to me.” His padawan has difficulty at first, struggling to lift the heavy weight and keep them together in a compact fashion. After Luke’s encouragement and Din’s comforting presence, he manages to do so in less time than it usually takes him. 

“Good job, kid.” Pride and happiness radiate off Din, who looks like he’s about to cheer. Luke finds himself grinning at the image of such a stoic man raising his fist in the air and yelling chants to encourage the _(their)_ little one. 

“We’re not done yet.” He says, trying not to give into Grogu’s pleading for more food _(and why is he so cute?)_. “You can do one more exercise, and then we’ll eat, I promise.” A tiny huff escapes Grogu’s mouth; he’s displeased, but the promise of food tempts him to finish the last part of their daily training. 

It goes smoothly, more smoothly than Luke would have expected, as Grogu dodges objects thrown at him and sends them back with the same amount of strength and speed. He’s progressing quickly, and Luke is both pleased and surprised. 

“Alright, young padawan. Let’s eat.” He knows that he has some leftover dried fish in the pockets of his robe, just enough to split between all three of them, although he thinks that Din will be too uncomfortable taking off his helmet to eat with them. 

Din’s hands are behind his back, and even though the helmet hides his face, he seems _nervous?_ _Worryapprehensionanxiousness_ surrounds him, and he says, slowly, “I brought something else with me. I hope you like it.” 

Grogu perks up at that, as curious as Luke is, and whatever it is, it’s blue and creamy, almost like - 

“Is that blue milk custard?” He’s taken aback at the gesture; blue milk custard is relatively expensive and difficult to transport without spoilage.

“You mentioned it was your favorite food in a letter. I figured that I could repay you for everything you’ve done for us.” 

_Us._ “I can’t believe you remembered that. Thank you.” Luke says, touched. Din faces the ground _(is he embarrassed?)_ , and the idea of a resulting blush spreading across those high cheekbones causes Luke’s face to flame. 

“I remember a lot about you. Receiving your letters was something that I looked forward to, and if I’m honest, the only thing I looked forward to for a while.” Din replies like he’s ashamed to admit such a prospect. 

And what is Luke supposed to say to that, besides, “I looked forward to receiving your letters as well?” The statement seems - _no, is_ \- inadequate; it cannot possibly encompass how excited, how unreasonably delighted he was when the tell-tale chime _dinged_ , indicating that another letter had arrived. 

The sun blazes above them. “Should we go back inside?” He asks, beyond grateful when Din nods in agreement, and all three proceed to enter the house. It’s blessedly cool inside, to the point where even Luke can discern a slight temperature difference, and Din’s and Grogu’s sighs of relief make him feel guilty for not noticing their discomfort. He’s used to arid and hot environments due to growing up on Tatooine, but not everyone is. Dagobah was a cool and moist swampland, a sharp contrast to Tatooine - adapting to that environment without temperature control from the Force was difficult. 

“Here.” Blue milk custard rests in one strong yet delicate hand and he takes it, digging in with a spoon. The sweet, velvet-smooth texture lays heavy on his tongue, and Luke moans, the sound echoing in an indecorous fashion throughout the kitchen. That sudden surge of _want_ is back - he briefly wonders if Din is thinking about kissing him, letting more of those sounds emerge - but the temptation of eating more custard wins out, and he devours it with relish. 

Grogu slurps his custard down with similar relish, _satisfactiondelightcontentment_ echoing and amplifying through their bond. “Aren’t you going to eat?” Luke asks. “You don’t have to eat with us if you don’t want to take off your helmet, but you should try it. It’s delicious.” 

Din shakes his head. “I’m not the biggest fan of blue milk. I got sick while drinking it a few years ago, and I haven’t been able to stomach it since.” 

“Well, what’s your favorite food then?” There’s silence, and then, Din says, “There’s a dish my mother used to make, but I’m not sure what it’s called.” 

“Is it Mandalorian?” Luke can understand some _Mando’a_ with the help of 3-PO, but Din shakes his head again, instead choosing to reply with, “I didn’t grow up on Mandalore. I grew up on Aq Vetina - it was a small settlement, populated with humans mainly - and it was destroyed during a Separatist attack, along with my parents.” 

His eyes widen. “I’m so sorry.” The other man meets his eyes, and Luke wants desperately to hold him upright, to reassure him that everything will be alright, but he only sighs, “It was a long time ago. I can’t really remember their faces anymore, but I remember her soup.” 

“Soup?” 

“Yeah. It wasn’t spicy, not like Mandalore cuisine, but it had greens, meat, and some different grains. We used to eat it when it was cold, and we’d curl up by the fire after.” 

Luke can make soup. Soup is no problem. “That sounds nice,” he says, somewhat lamely _(like an idiot)_. 

“It was.” Din’s voice has taken on a wistful, longing tone, _and okay, he has to make soup_ , regardless of if it’s considered far too intimate for their current relationship by Mandalorian standards. 

A soft snore breaks the silence between them, _and oh, Grogu’s asleep_. Luke feels suddenly foolish for not realizing sooner, and, very carefully, uses the Force to carry him down the hallway and put him to bed. “He can get a bit irritated if you jostle him around too much.” He explains, hoping that Din won’t murder him for lifting the child without using his hands. 

“Oh, I know,” remarks Din noncommittally. “He used to fuss all the time when I would try and get him to sleep. I had to sing to him, can you believe that?” 

Luke glances over at him, at this strange, kind, _gentle_ man, and manages to whisper, “Yes, I can.” The “ _you’re wonderful and captivating, and I’d like to kiss you sometime”_ go unsaid, but with the way Din is regarding him, Luke doesn’t think that verbalizing it would make much of a difference. They crowd around the small cot, observing Grogu’s sleeping form, before Luke sighs, dreading what’s to come and says, “I haven’t told you everything about me.” 

“What do you mean?” Confusion is evident in Din’s voice, and he smiles in response, joyless. 

“Let me tell you about my parents.” 

* * *

Luke’s room is not very well-furnished, but it still has a comforting, almost homey-like presence, and Din finds himself standing in the middle, feeling unbearably awkward in his armor. The house and room are so small that when Luke brushes past him to sit on the bed, gesturing for him to come and join him, a shudder runs down his spine at the thought of them being so close. 

The bed is comfortable and worn like everything else in the house, but not big enough for two people. Their shoulders touch, beskar against rough robes, and Din resists the urge to lean in closer, to press his side against Luke’s warmer body, to pull him in - _no, don’t think about that._

Luke sighs, sounding much older than he is, before turning towards Din, conflict written all over his face. “I understand if you see me differently after this, but you have to believe that I haven’t hidden it to cause any trouble, _I swear._ I’ll start with my mother, even though I don’t remember anything about her. My sister, Leia, is the one that remembers her the most.” At this, his full lips curve upwards in a faint intimation of a beaming grin, and for one brief, awful second, Din is jealous of Luke having a family. 

“Her name was Padmé Amidala, although if I’m pedantic, she was originally Padmé Naberrie before she was elected Queen of Naboo. The planet underwent a blockade from the Trade Federation during her term. Along with her handmaidens, she, two Jedi knights - Qui Gon and Obi-Wan - and a Ganguan out of all people, escaped after the invasion. Their ship was damaged, so they landed in Tatooine to try to hide and get spare parts when she met my father.” 

He goes silent, sighs again. “My father’s name was Anakin Skywalker. He grew up as a slave on Tatooine and would have remained enslaved had he not helped Qui Gon and my mother, and if he wasn’t identified as being extremely Force-sensitive, so much so that he was prophesized to be the chosen one who would bring balance to the Force.” 

“Balance to the Force? What does that mean?” He knows that Jedi’s use the Force, but that hasn’t lessened his confusion _at all_ , and Luke furrows his brow trying to find the best way to explain, before settling on: “The Force is an energy field that surrounds all living things. Those that can use it, like Grogu and me, have a higher midi-chlorian count in our cells than most beings; it’s a symbiotic relationship, we give them a place to live, and they give us our abilities.” 

“The balance aspect refers to the two sides of the Force: the light and the dark. Put simply, the light side and the dark side tend to result in uses falling into two categories - Jedi and Sith, respectively - and there were so many wars over which side would rule. There was never a balance until my father.” 

“So,” says Din, still hopelessly confused, “there’s been a lot of conflict between the light and dark side for a while - “ 

“Millennia.” Luke corrects, looking sheepish. “You can see why bringing balance would be important.”

“Okay, for millennia, and your father was supposed to end the conflict, forever?” 

“Yep.” Luke even pops the “p,” his pink lips forming a neat o-shape and says, “He joined the Jedi Order on Coruscant when he was nine as Obi-Wan’s apprentice, and it appeared that everything was going according to plan. He was incredibly gifted, became a Jedi Knight only thirteen years after joining, and married my mother in secret.” At Din’s inquiring expression, he elaborates, “Jedi weren’t supposed to have attachments. They were taken from their family as soon as they were identified as Force-sensitive, taught to remain calm, not express emotions, not have possessions or any connection to others, to simplify things. If the Jedi Order found out about their marriage, he would have been expelled, and my mother wouldn’t have been a senator.” 

“Were you raised that way, without attachments?” The idea is baffling to Din that _children_ would be taken from their families and raised not to love another person, and the idea of Luke Skywalker, who is kind and gentle and so very good with _his kid_ , being raised in such an isolated manner causes his anger to spike, simmering underneath his skin. 

“No, not at all. My uncle and aunt on Tatooine raised me, but -” He cuts himself off, blue eyes dimming, and clears his throat, “they were killed.” There’s silence, and Din desperately wishes that _I’m sorry_ wasn’t such a vague, inadequate phrase, but Luke continues, his voice as calm as ever, “Anyway, back to my father. When he found out that my mother was pregnant with Leia and me, he started having nightmares of her dying in childbirth and became obsessed with preventing that. He went to Master Yoda for advice first, but that was of no use since he couldn’t confide in anyone about what was bothering him; that is, no one but Chancellor Palpatine.” 

_Chancellor Palpatine_. The name is familiar in a niggling, annoying way, and Luke smiles thinly, “You might know him better as the late Emperor.” 

“The Emperor helped _your father_?” It seems ludicrous, and yet, Din’s compelled to hear more _(is this a Jedi mind trick, having an attractive man lure him into listening?)._ That distant look in Luke’s eyes is back, and he wants nothing more than to remove it, and then Luke says, “Depending on your definition of help, yes. He knew about their marriage and told my father that he could teach him how to stop her death, _but only if he used the Dark Side._ ” 

Luke looks at him steadily, his blue eyes almost _burning_ with resolve, stating with explicit deliberation, “He Fell from the light side to the dark, becoming a Sith Lord, and it all blew up in his face. My mother still died, Leia and I were separated at birth - she was raised on Alderaan before -” he waves his hands, Din immediately understands the implication, “and he was alone.” 

“So, what did he do?” Din asks, curious. 

“He worked with the Emperor on constructing the Death Star and _enforcing,_ ” _what a delicate way to put slaughtering millions. Din thinks_ , “the Empire’s rule. He didn’t know about Leia and me; I was raised believing that my father had died in the Clone Wars fighting alongside Obi-Wan, and I fought him after being trained by Master Yoda. Of course, I didn’t know it was him until, well.” Luke takes off his glove. 

His right hand’s skin tone is slightly different than the other’s, just a hint pinker and it shines (oddly enough). “Your hand, it’s cyber-kinetic?” 

Luke grins, a flash of white teeth that’s so sardonic and scathing it makes Din’s heart _ache._ “He chopped it off with his lightsaber and then told me.” 

_“Your father chopped your hand off?”_ For one brief moment, Din worries about waking the kid up, but anger and rage and pure, blind hatred rush through him at the thought of Luke’s _father_ hurting him like that. “Where is he? _I’ll kill him.”_

“So, he cut my hand off.” Luke says like it’s just a regular father-son bonding activity and fury festers, boiling until Din wants to shake him and hit something ( _not Luke,_ but the bed frame seems sturdy enough), and then he adds, “I had to fight him again, five years ago.” 

“Did you kill him?” Selfishly, Din hopes the answer is _yes_ , but Luke shakes his head because he’s too noble and good to kill anyone. “I didn’t, although I almost died at the hands of the Emperor. He aided me in defeating him and died in my arms after. Even after all that he did, my father still had some good in him.” 

_Good?_ In what universe is chopping your kid’s hand off and trying to kill them _good?_ Before he can voice it, however, something hasn’t been said in Luke’s story, and he’s so close to figuring it out; it’s on the tip of his tongue. The death of the Emperor and his most significant collaborator has been discussed in nearly every circle that Din’s worked for, and something like dread forms a ball in his chest. 

“Luke,” he asks, “when your father joined the Empire, who was he?”

That same sardonic grin greets him in response. “Darth Vader, of course.” 

_Darth Vader._

_Darth Kriffing Vader._

Din stands, feeling hot and cold, confused, moronic for not realizing it sooner, but most of all, _disappointed,_ and moves; he _needs_ to get away. 

“Wait,” Luke grabs his wrist. His hand is flesh-and-blood, warmth radiating through the thin fabric. “Please stay. I know that you don’t want to see me anymore, and I understand that, but Grogu is going to be disappointed if you go without saying goodbye.” 

And Luke is right because, _of course, he is_ , but Din wrenches his hand away, hating himself for missing that warmth. “I’ll be back. I-” _think I care for you, please don’t ask me to stay again because if you do, I won’t be able to leave,_ “-just need some time to myself.” 

“Of course. I understand.” Luke manages a small, sad smile. “I’ll let you know if we move, but you’re always welcome here with Grogu and I.” 

The offer is tempting, overwhelmingly so, and Din responds hoarsely, “Thank you.” 

He walks, each step feeling like an insurmountable obstacle, his armor and helmet weighing him down, turning into dead-weight when they should serve as protection. Luke watches him as he goes, those blue eyes following every move, and despite Din’s mind _screaming_ at him _to turn back_ , he only says, “You know, in _Mando’a_ , we have a saying: _Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la._ No one cares who your father was, only the father you’ll be.” 

The door shuts behind him. 

  
  


He hunts. If clients think his methods of obtaining the target are too cruel, they don’t voice it; he gets the job done after all. Cara makes sympathetic noises when he reaches Nevarro, but Din ignores her and Greef’s attempts to get him to open up. Perhaps the most troubling aspect is that no matter how many jobs Din takes, how late he stays awake, how he refuses to check his datapad in (futile) hopes of another message, Luke Skywalker remains in his mind. He sees glimpses of light brown hair wherever he goes, blue eyes and _that smile_ appear etched into his subconscious. He dreams, not of fire and blood, but of Luke coming closer, touching him on the bed, leaning in and kissing him, a barely-there touch of lips that Din wants to lean into and _deepen_ \- 

He finally asks Cara, “What do you do when you can’t stop thinking about someone?” and gets the hilarious image of her face turning red, choking down her _caf._

“Do you have a crush?” Her lips broaden into a smirk. “I knew it!” 

“I don’t know if it’s a crush. I just. _He haunts my dreams, okay?_ And I want to kiss him.” 

“That’s a crush,” Cara says. “Please tell me that he’s a good person, though.” 

Din swallows. “Yeah, he’s great. Good with the kid, and very funny and friendly, but - “ 

“But what?” Cara stares at him, her brown eyes almost boring through his helmet, and Din caves. “He told me some stuff about his family, and… it wasn’t good.” 

“What do you mean? Like how _not good_ are we talking about?” 

“ ‘Killed the Emperor, Darth Vader was his father’ _not good_.” 

“Oh.” Realization flashes over her face. “Wait, you have a crush on _Luke Skywalker_?” 

“Don’t call it that.” Din says helplessly, “It’s not a crush.” 

Cara cackles. “This is the best thing I’ve ever heard. Tell me everything.” 

Din doesn’t necessarily tell her everything, but he tells her enough about Luke’s care for Grogu and about how they had exchanged letters _(it’s kind of pathetic that you fell for someone through letters, but it’s even sadder that you just now realized it, she says)._

“Do you think he likes you back?” The mirth is gone from Cara’s voice, and Din’s heart leaps at the idea, but he shakes his head. 

“I’m not good for him.” 

She punches his shoulder, and both of them wince at the loud, vibrating sound of beskar on impact. 

“That’s a load of shit. You’re a good person, even if you don’t always do the best things.” 

Later, flipping his datapad between his hands, Din mutters, “I’m going to regret this,” and types in: _How to court a Jedi?_

It’s a few weeks before he gets the chance to go back to Jakku, and he hopes that his brief “ _Heading back tomorrow to see you”_ message was received. The planet is as desolate as he left it, endless dunes of sand that stretch as far as the eye can see, heat radiating through his armor, and he walks for what seems like ages until small, pale-colored houses appear. 

Luke and the kid are nowhere in sight, and Din worries that he entered the wrong coordinates, even though he double and triple-checked to make sure they were correct. The sun bores down on the sand, sweltering and torrid, and he knows that he can’t survive out here for much longer, not without water or food. Still, the thought of Luke coming back and seeing his face is a much more horrifying _(read: exhilarating)_ thought than dying of starvation. 

So he sits down and waits. 

“Din?!” His name comes out of Luke’s lips with a shout _(I wonder if he shouts that loudly when - STOP IT),_ and Luke Skywalker, in all his tanned, lovely glory, stands above him. 

“Did you get my message?” 

“Of course I did!” Luke’s face is red, in a way that doesn’t seem possible despite intense sun exposure, “I’m just surprised. I thought that you wouldn’t be back for at least another day.” 

“Well, I did say I would be back tomorrow.” He says, attempting to focus on anything that’s not Luke’s bottom lip and how badly he wants to _bite_ it. A squeal from the kid proves to be effective at silencing the constant surge of _want_ , and he finds himself holding an especially squirmy Grogu.

“Hey, you little womp rat. Did you miss me?” 

_“Din,”_ Luke hisses, trying to hold back laughter. Grogu coos, evidently pleased by his return, wrapping himself around his leg. 

“We were about to eat lunch if you’d like to join us. Oh Grogu, let him stand up.” Luke’s voice has taken on a caring, slightly admonishing tone, complete with _“hurry up, will you?”_ motions and Din bites the inside of his cheek. It’s _cute_ seeing him like this. 

“Yes, that sounds nice.” They scramble inside, Grogu still clinging to one leg, and he lets out a slight sigh of relief at how much cooler it is inside. Despite assignments taking him to various planets, hot and dry environments have never been his favorite, in part because they’re so different from Aq Vetina and Mandalore (well, the area he grew up in). 

“I know that it’s hot,” Luke says, apologetic _(whatever for?)_ “but I figured that since you brought me something last time, I could do the same in return.” He cradles a bowl in his hand, setting the other down for the kid, and - 

“Is that soup?” 

Luke blushes, pink running up to the tips of his ears. “I made it for you.” 

_Oh._ He’s sure that the other man has no idea how _significant_ \- _no, intimate_ \- such a gesture is, but it’s still touching. “I tried to include all the stuff you listed. The meat was easy enough to find, but the greens and grains took a while, and I’m still not sure if it tastes alright.” He looks up, an earnest, apologetic expression on his face. 

“I’m sure it’s going to be great. Thank you.” Luke sighs, his shoulders dropping as the tension leaves his body, and announces, “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He grabs Grogu using his powers _(the Force, he reminds himself),_ and they head down the hallway. 

He takes off his helmet, inhaling spices and the savory smell of braised meat, and digs in, the spoon feeling oddly delicate between his fingers. It’s delicious, the meat is tender enough that it splits into pieces beneath his spoon, the greens aren’t bitter, and each grain is a kernel of cooked perfection. It’s not spicy, simply seasoned with salt and pepper, but it tastes so strongly _of home, of family_ , that Din doesn’t realize tears are running down his face until after he finishes the bowl. 

Wiping his eyes, he puts on his helmet and wanders through the _(their)_ house. Luke is sitting on his bed, his legs crossed and eyes closed. 

“Oh.” He says. “Um, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” 

“No,” says Luke, his eyes opening slowly, blinking away any residual sleep, and Din is entranced by the subtle fluttering of his long eyelashes. “I was meditating, and it’s good that you came in; I was just about to finish. Is everything okay?” 

“Your soup” _(Dang ferrik, why are words so hard?)_ “it was _(perfect)_ very good. It tasted like home.” He hopes that Luke can understand the _“thank you, you’re wonderful, I don’t deserve you or the kid”_ behind it. 

“I’m glad you liked it.” That sincere smile is back, and Din wishes he could kiss him. Jerkily, he nods. 

“Me too.” 

* * *

Din looks tired, in an aching, bone-worn way that Luke is intimately familiar with. He suggests a nap _(“Grogu takes a nap every day.” “I’m not a child.” “Still, you should take a nap.” “No.”),_ but even Din’s refusal doesn’t dampen his exhilaration. Din liked the soup. _Din liked the soup._

“You still need to challenge him to fight,” 3-PO says, rather distressed at this turn of events. “He may deny your courtship as a result of your unorthodox approach.” 

“If he denies it, then that’s his choice. I don’t think he’s a huge stickler for tradition” (Luke hopes this isn’t the case, despite the revelation that Din was raised in an overly traditional _cult_ once he became a Foundling), “but if the main reason is that I gave him soup before fighting, then I’m not going to push him into courtship.” 

3-PO lets out a harrumph, clearly disbelieving him, but remains silent. R2 beeps in affirmation and Luke attempts to strategize. It’s hard, being so close to the other man, and the fact that he can sense _affectionhungerwant_ pouring off him makes it even more difficult. Din is attracted to him, but does he _like_ him? 

(Somewhere in the distance, Luke can hear Leia cackling over what she perceives as his _“deliberate obtuseness.”_ He ignores it.) 

It’s been roughly a week since Din came back, and it’s been a week full of _torture._ He has to listen to Din sing a lullaby _(a lullaby!)_ to Grogu every night. It’s so _adorable_ that Luke thinks he might die.

(He had asked Din about it one time. “Your lullaby, it’s not in _Mando’a_ or Basic. What does it mean?” 

Din had looked at him, his helmet doing nothing to hide his weighted gaze, and said, “My father used to sing it to me. It’s about a hunting trip between a father and his son, and how proud the father is that his boy is becoming a man.”

And the fact that Din sang it to Grogu? Luke’s heart had become a melted puddle of goo, that’s what.) 

The day dawns, bright and colder than usual, and Luke steadies his resolve. He knows that today is _the day_ , and before he can regret it, he asks, “Do you want to spar?” 

“Are you challenging me to a fight?” Din’s response is immediate. 

“I - yes.” 

Polished beskar stares back at him. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” Luke replies. “I want to fight you.” Din is silent, and Luke worries that he’s overstepped, that Din doesn’t like him at all, and then a soft, “I accept” breaks it. 

It’s happening. They’re going to fight, and he’s both excited and terrified. 

“Meet me outside in fifteen minutes.” 

* * *

Does Luke know what he’s doing? Challenging him to a fight? The thought of Luke Skywalker considering _him_ , Din Djarin, to be his _cya’rika_ is laughable at best and delusional at worst. 

And yet, heat rushes through him at the thought, flames of _want_ licking up his entire body. Has Luke been courting him? Din attempts to look back through his memories, through every beautiful and terrible interaction, and surely that’s not the case _(is it?)_. His court isn’t worthy of someone like Luke Skywalker, not that that’s stopped him from bringing more blue milk custard and attempting to meditate with both Luke and Grogu (he’s read that meditation is essential for Jedi). 

“Fuck.” There’s only one thing to do at this point, and he grabs his spear and blaster. He’s going to fight. 

* * *

Din cuts an imposing figure, his strength evident in that muscular form covered in beskar, and Luke grabs his lightsaber in response. Grogu is settled on a rock, watching them approach one another with curiosity.

Luke tries his hardest to remember proper etiquette _(Does he make the first move? Does Din?)_ but the _clang_ of a beskar spear startles him, and he dodges it, his lightsaber out in front of him to block the attack. 

A snarl. “You wanted to fight me, Skywalker. Do it.” The spear comes down again, but this time, Luke meets it. He pushes back against it, taking some care not to press into the cloth-covered spots of Din’s armor, but that only infuriates the other man more. A blaster nearly presses against his abdomen, and Luke moves to the left, bringing his lightsaber down to cut it in half. 

“That was my good blaster.” Din snaps. Luke grins, elated. “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

His legs are wrapped together with thin metal wire, but he cuts through it and shakes it off. Singing Birds missiles whistle through the air like hornets, and he blocks them, spinning his lightsaber and sending them off into various directions (nowhere near Grogu, thankfully. Luke thinks that Din would _kill_ him if the _(their)_ kid got hurt). 

Beskar meets lightsaber in a parody of a kiss, as they fight and dodge and snarl at each other like wolves. Luke’s robes are set on fire. “Consider it payback,” Din says, and _yeah, he’s definitely smirking_. He dives into the sand, attempting to put the fire out as that spear comes down on him again and again and _again._

Finally, he stands, charges towards the other man as Din charges towards him, and - 

* * *

He’s flying through the air. It’s a dizzying sensation, being pulled towards someone that he was previously running towards without the aid of gravity, and _oh_ , Din is going to _kill_ him for using the Force to knock him off-balance. 

Luke’s blue eyes widen, and he tries to run back, but it’s too late; they collapse into an unceremonious heap. 

“Why did you do that?” He snarls, attempting to ignore how _nice_ Luke feels beneath him. 

“I didn’t!” 

“You did! Stop using your Jedi mind tricks on me, Skywalker. It won’t work.” 

“What do you mean?” Luke asks, and _oh no, he’s not getting away with this_ , not if Din can help it. 

_“What do I mean?”_ _Is he serious_? Anger and frustration and arousal - they all blur together until they’re indistinguishable from one another - and Din pulls his head closer until they’re almost touching. “Why do you have to taunt me like this? I can’t get you out of my head. I dream about you, do you know that? You made me soup and challenged me to a fight, despite that you have no idea what it would mean on Mandalore, and now you use the Force to bring me _close to you_? If you don’t feel the same way about me, I understand, but you don’t get to rub it in my face.” 

He breathes heavily, exhaustion from the fight and his outburst settling in. Luke regards him, his cheeks flushed, his pink lips parted, _and God, Din wants._

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at one time.” He says. 

“That’s not the point.” The words are biting, and Luke flinches, the gesture nearly imperceptible, and with effort, he pushes himself up. 

“Wait, don’t leave!” 

“What do you want from me?” He’s _exhausted_ , physically and emotionally. “I know that I’m not a great person, not compared to you and that I can’t offer much - “

“Stop saying that.” Luke cuts him off, his eyes blazing with anger _(and something else, maybe?)_. “I did know what I was doing since I wanted to do it. I _wanted_ to make you soup and fight you _._ I know that’s important to Mandolarian courting rituals.” 

Din pauses. “You mean - “ 

Luke’s voice rings out, and he’s closer, his chest pressed up against Din’s. _“I like you, okay?”_

He continues talking, despite Din’s world stopping to a standstill. “I asked 3-PO for help courting you, Din. I loved receiving your letters, and then I met you, and you’re so wonderful and kind and I know you like me too. I could feel it.” 

* * *

Din looks confused, and then angry, and guilt gnaws at Luke’s heart. “You could feel it? Do you mean you could tell when I was _affected_ by you?” 

Luke flinches again. “You tend to broadcast your emotions, and I picked up on that, using the Force.” 

“Great.” Din’s voice is flat, and he pushes past him, uncaring, _and oh no, this is not good, not good at all._

“It’s not a bad thing.” Luke scrambles to catch up, hoping that he’ll listen. “I’m sorry if you feel as though I’ve evaded your privacy. I didn’t mean to; I swear. It’s hard not to feel your feelings though, you’re -” 

“I’m a fool,” Din says. “I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea.” 

“What do you mean?” asks Luke again, dreading the answer. Din snorts, the sardonic sound carving wounds into his heart, and says, “I tried to court you too, with the blue-milk custard and meditation, since I like you, but it doesn’t matter. We’re too different. Whoever heard of a Mandalorian and Jedi getting together?” 

“That’s not true.” His stomach sinks and Luke desperately adds, “It’s not.” 

Din regards him with a cool look. “I don’t want to take off my helmet and break the creed any more than I already have. We couldn’t be together _like that_ unless you wore a blindfold or something, and I’m dangerous.” 

“First off, I don’t particularly care about sex. It’s something I’d be willing to try with you since _I like you_ , but I don’t need it. I like kissing and hand-holding and cuddling more. Also, you’re not the only person with a monopoly on danger, alright?” 

Din stares and then sighs. “This is never going to work. You do realize that?” 

Luke looks back. “It can’t hurt to try.” 

* * *

Everything in his body is screaming for him to accept Luke’s courtship, _and oh, how Din wants to._

“I’d like to kiss you.” He states, and Luke’s smile brightens into something challenging to look at directly. 

“I’d like for you to do that too.” He says and leans forward, pressing his lips against Din’s hand with such gentleness that Din feels himself flush at the tender care. “Can I?”

He barely manages a nod, and then Luke presses his head against his helmet, and all Din can see is _Luke Luke Luke._ Affection, and something stronger _(love, he thinks wildly)_ thrum, settling under his skin with ease. 

Luke pulls away, much to his chagrin, before he realizes _“we can do this again and again and again,”_ and says, “You know, I’ve always wanted to go to Ahch-To. It’s an ancient Jedi temple, and I think that Grogu would enjoy it. Do you want to come with us?” 

And, what is Din supposed to do, except say " _yes, cya'rika. Always._ "? 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations (in order of appearance): 
> 
> aay'han - bittersweet moment of mourning and joy; "remembering and celebration"  
> ner vod - brother/sister  
> Manda'o - Mandolarian (language)  
> Manda'od -Mandalorian; Literally: "Son/Daughter of Mandalore"  
> tihaar - an alcoholic drink; a strong, clear spirit made from fruit  
> Ga'are Olarom - You're welcome ( _Ga'are Olarom, Din_ therefore is, You're welcome, Din)  
> Manda'yiam -The name for the planet Mandalore in Manda'o  
> cya'rika - beloved/sweetheart

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Help You Need (The Love You Deserve)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29184225) by [subtlehysteria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtlehysteria/pseuds/subtlehysteria)




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